


Theatre

by pollitt



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-27
Updated: 2007-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:09:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/pseuds/pollitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The candlewax is spilling in an intricate, if macabre, pattern by the time Bram has finished reviewing the Lyceum's business for the week, checking the ledgers, counting the money, reading the words written about Henry's latest performance</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theatre

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a first kiss challenge. Kitestringer asked for Henry Irving and Bram Stoker.
> 
> In his lifetime, Bram Stoker was better known as personal assistant of actor Henry Irving and business manager of the Lyceum Theatre in London, which Irving owned. (Thank you, wikipedia) Stoker was dedicated to Irving, often putting work before family.

The candlewax is spilling in an intricate, if macabre, pattern by the time Bram has finished reviewing the Lyceum's business for the week, checking the ledgers, counting the money, reading the words written about Henry's latest performance. It's well into the witching hour by the time he realizes he's spent all evening in the tiny room in the back of the theatre, time he could have spent writing--the spectre of an idea has been haunting, standing just at the edge of his mind for weeks now.

He opens the drawer just to his left and removes the thick book, the pages heavy with ink and ideas. He opens to the first blank page and has filled nearly the entire page when a shadow creeps across the paper.

"Harry, my dear, you've startled me!" Bram exclaims as he looks up and sees Henry standing in the doorway, silent and with an air of seductive menace.

"You should be home at this hour, with your dearest wife, should you not?" Henry asks, stepping more into the light, the shadows cast by his features rendering his face all the more striking.

"There was business to finish, and I was hoping to catch some leisure with you." It's a truth that Bram is only now realizing.

Henry stops, just to the side of the desk and less than an arm's length from where Bram is seated, and looks at a loss for words. Bram has watched, rapt, as Henry has lost himself in his roles, has embodied the Hamlet, Mad Prince of Denmark, or the wretched humpback, Richard III, but never has he seen such focus, such *fire* in Henry's eyes, and never directed solely at him, and him alone.

The writer has no words. The actor, no voice.

Henry's hand is soft, no calluses from manual labor mar his fingertips, the same fingertips that touch Bram's smooth cheek.

"My dear."

Bram rises, drunk on the look in Henry's eyes, and gives himself over to the kiss that follows.


End file.
